


Cut

by Kindle86



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Coming Out, Cutting, Homophobia, Homosexuality, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 11:59:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kindle86/pseuds/Kindle86
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Gene are hunting a serial robber; they stumble upon a promising-looking suspect, but something just doesn't add up-- at least for Sam. </p><p>Pervasive theme of self-harm/cutting, also societal homophobia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cut

  He dragged the blade across his skin, watching as the blood slowly pooled upwards, a deep red line adorning his forearm. He liked this part, the feeling just after, the exhilaration, the endorphins, the sense of control. As he sat admiring his handiwork, he was suddenly drawn out of himself, jarred by a banging on the door.

“Tyler!”

Sam jumped, hastily pulling down his sleeve, afraid even to take the time to grab something other than his shirt to absorb the blood, lest Gene break his door down (again).

One cuff undone, he reached for the door, finding Gene standing there, foot poised in kicking position.

“What took you so long?” he barked.

“You mean all three seconds? Well, for the first second, I stood up, the second, I walked over to the door---“

“Aright, enough, smart arse.” Gene cut him off and pushed past him into the small flat.

Used to his Guv’s uninvited appearances in his ‘personal space’, Sam didn’t bother with a snarky remark. With a somewhat defeated and exasperated air, he turned to the larger man and asked, “What do you want?”

“Beer if you got any. Or anything else liquor-related.” Gene’s gaze sought out any apparent bottles lying about; failing to locate any, he looked back at Sam.

“Not what I meant.” Sam said, making no move to retrieve the requested beverage.  “ _Why_ are you here?”

Gene stared at him.

“Since you’re asking for booze and not dragging me out of my flat, I’ll assume there’s no case on. It’s 11pm. Why are you here?”

Gene still didn’t say anything.

Sam let out a deep sigh and moved to the kitchen. “Last time I saw you, you were busy calling me a ‘touchy-feely pansy’. Not that that’s particularly unusual. But I wasn’t expecting to see you until tomorrow morning, as hanging out with a ‘nancy’ is not, as you’ve made clear, your preferred way to spend an evening. Something happen at the _Railway Arms_? Nelson cancel the darts tournament?” 

“Came to check up on you.”

Sam poked his head around the corner, eyes wide in surprise.

“What?” Gene supplied defensively. “I noticed you weren’t at the pub.”

Sam could think of several “whats” that stood out about Gene’s unprecedented show of concern at his typically unwanted-DI’s absence from his machismo-laden stomping ground. But he thought it better not to press the issue. Gene admitting this much was a first; pushing it would likely only lead to blows.

“Well, here I am. And here _you_ are.” Sam offered Gene the beer he’d retrieved in his outstretched hand.

Gene took it. And noticed the blood trail which had reached Sam’s wrist, visible under the unbuttoned cuff of the offering hand. “What…” Gene started, then noticed the dark patch on Sam’s shirt, a linear blot on an otherwise spotless garment. “What happened to you?”

“Huh? Nothing!” Sam answered a little too quickly, jerking his arm back down to his side. _How could he have been so stupid? Was he really this out of practice? Where was his damn jacket when he needed it?_

“Don’t look like nothing.”

“Well, it in’t a job for CID.” Sam said dismissively. “I’m not a corpse, there’s no detecting needed,” he clarified.

~*~*~*~ 12 hours earlier ~*~*~*~

“What were you doing with the knife?” Gene demanded, slamming his hands down on the table that sat between him and the suspect. His DI sat at his right, a concentrated look on his face; not that Gene noticed this at first—he was too focused on intimidating the ‘scum’.

They’d grabbed the little punk—a teenager with spiky hair and dark eyes—while on the hunt for a serial mugger. There had been a spate of muggings at knifepoint in the area. This kid had been in the vicinity at the last call they’d received.

Sam had tried to get him to talk before Gene could jump off his leash; but with Gene, that was never very long, and before Sam knew it he was already barking at the boy. After a bit more shouting, the kid was obviously shaken, but still refusing to talk. Sam still sat there, studying him.

Gene turned to his DI. He’d seen Sam work before; he knew he preferred a softer touch than his own style. But something was different; Sam was really looking this kid over—his hair, his clothes, his face, his arms, his posture—an expression of serious contemplation written across his features. _What the hell now?_ he thought to himself.

“If you ain’t the criminal we’re looking for, tell me why you had that knife in your pocket?” Gene insisted once more.

“Guv, can I have a minute with him?”

Gene was caught slightly off guard. But he needed a piss, so what the hell? Gene nodded. “Holler if anything.”

Sam waited until he heard the door latch shut again. “Right, Johnny… You’re not finding this particularly pleasant, are you?”

Incredulous, the boy shook his head.

“And you say you didn’t do the robberies.”

“Right, I didn’t.”

“But you won’t give us an alibi for the one on Wednesday, and you won’t tell us what you were doing in the area tonight, or why you’ve a weapon on you.”

The kid’s eyes slid down, staring at the table.

“You dating anyone?”

Johnny looked up, surprised. But Sam knew the surprise wasn’t at the otherwise-apparent change in topic; it was because this was still very much on-topic. His alibi was his date.

“Right, that’s what I thought.”

Johnny’s eyes stayed wide open.

“What’s his name?”

Johnny’s voice caught in his throat. He coughed. “I, I uh, I don’t know what you’re…”

“Come off it. You know I know. Now, who is he?” The question was sincere. There was none of the pejorative tone or insulting disgust that usually came with such accusation-come-questions. Johnny noticed.

“I can’t tell you that.”

“He married?”

“No. It just, it’s not right to… to share that kind of information.”

“It’s not illegal anymore.”

“Right, and if you go sniffing around his place, you don’t think he’ll be ostracized? Blackballed?! And all because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. Forget it, I don’t owe you nothing!” his sudden defensiveness told Sam that whoever this person was, he meant enough for Johnny not to want to jeopardize the relationship.

“Yup, ok, you’re right. But if you get stitched up for these robberies you didn’t do, which will happen if we can’t clear you, then what? How often you think he’ll come visit you in prison, eh?” Sam paused, looked him in the eye. “I’ll be discrete, I promise.”

Johnny looked incredulous. “Why you doin’ this? No one helps us.”

“I believe you’re innocent. That’s all that matters.”

Johnny studied him another 30seconds; Sam sat there patiently. “Adam. Adam Whithal.”

Sam nodded, wrote down the name.

“Please…”

“I said I would. I will. Stop worrying. I’m not out to get you or your boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend! You say that so easily, like it’s normal…”

Sam didn’t say anything, just continued to look at his notepad.

“The knife.”

“I can’t…”

“Lemme ask, what do your parents think of homosexuals?”

“Huh?”

“I take it they’re not endorsing the lifestyle? Probably wouldn’t be thrilled to find out they have a gay son?”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No. No, I’m not. I’m trying to understand you.” Sam’s expression changed as he kept his eyes trained on Johnny. “But what do _you_ think of homosexuality?”

“Wha—what does this have to do with---“

“You probably spend most nights wishing you weren’t like this, huh? Wishing it’d just go away? That you could be ‘normal’ like everyone else? Though, you’ve found someone, so that must help…hopefully. But maybe not enough…”

“What are you on about?!”

“It’s fairly warm to be wearing long sleeves, in’t it?”

Johnny’s jaw dropped.

“Why don’t you roll ‘em up?”

“No.”

“I really think you should.”

“Should what? Punk not cooperating?” Gene barged back in.

Sam wasn’t particularly pleased with his reappearance; he hadn’t wanted to make this overly difficult for Johnny. But, the Guv was going to have to find out anyway; he wouldn’t just release a suspect because Sam said to. “Roll up his sleeves.”

“Oh, I can do that for him!” Gene grabbed one of his wrists and pinned it to the table as he rolled up the sleeve; three times his size, it was little struggle, despite Johnny fighting him with his free hand.

There, along his right (and left) forearms, were trails of scars--- some old, some new; one particularly, markedly fresh.

“What the hell is this?” Gene asked.

“The reason he had the knife on him. He’s clean, Guv. I’ll have a check at his alibi before we let him go, but I don’t think he’s our man.”

“You got his alibi?”

“Yeah, but _I’m_ going to be the one to take care of it.”

“Fine, I don’t need the extra hassle,” Gene bristled.

“What’s this all about then? Some new-fangled way to take drugs or somat? You a druggie, boy?”

“No!” Johnny squeaked.

“He’s cut himself,” Sam explained. Gene looked confused. “Sometimes people do that. It’s not illegal though, so we can’t hold him for it.”

“Well, we can if he’s tryin’ ter kill ‘imself!” Gene said.

“He’s not.” “I’m not” they said in unison.

Gene was slightly taken aback at the simultaneous responses. Sam explained further, “Look at his wrists—there are no marks over the critical veins. Plus, research shows people who self-harm generally aren’t suicidal, though often they don’t see themselves being alive in 5 years’ time. But that’s not imminent; it’s a depressed view of the future.”

“What the hell kind of research are you readin’ you…” Gene shook his head, at a loss for the end of the sentence. He refocused his attention: “You’re a teenager. What the hell you got to be upset about? You should be kissing girls and runnin’ around making trouble. And who the hell—“

“Gene! Leave him. It’s none of our business at this point. Don’t make him feel worse.”

Gene looked surprised, but dropped it. Sam clearly had some horse in this race; whatever Gene had missed while he’d been out, he didn’t want to know. It was just easier that way with his DI. Despite always having wanted to be in the know before Sam showed up (and still, when it came to Carling and Skelton), he’d learned to trust Sam—at least some, and when the stakes weren’t particularly high, why not save himself the trouble?

“Right, I’m off to check his alibi. Hold him till I get back, just in case.”

Gene shrugged. “Send Phyllis in when you go. And tell Skelton to get in here and babysit the kid till she takes him.”

~*~*~*

All told, it took Sam a little over an hour and a half to track down and talk to Adam Whithal. The alibi checked out, once Sam convinced him that, assuming Johnny was innocent, it would all be kept confidential, and he didn’t have to tell him all the _details_ of what they’d been doing—just the general where, for how long, etc.

When Sam made it back, he let Gene know. He and Gene went to the cell to have him released. He didn’t look too much worse for wear, given the circumstances.

Johnny, who’d had about two hours to sit and think and ruminate on how the hell Sam had known what he’d known, greeted him with an odd mix of an expression. He thanked Sam, and seemed to mean it, for his help. And yet, there was clearly an affronted air at Sam’s intrusion into his privacy.

“Thanks-- for getting me out of here,” he said quietly, though both Sam and Gene could still hear. He seemed torn, but ultimately added, “You promise that information won’t be repeated? I wasn’t sure how you figured it all out, an’ all, you know? It’s the first time anyone’s… I was worried. You shouldn’t have said… It’s not your place to— “

“It is my place when it means we could bang up the wrong guy for a crime. Or, in this case a series of crimes. That would mean you sittin’ in jail for something you didn’t do, while the real bastard is still out there victimizing other people. Who wins then, eh? And like I said, it’s all confidential. You should, you know… “ Sam couldn’t decide what to say; he settled for, “It gets better you know. It does… Good luck.”

Johnny nodded but didn’t really seem to believe him. As he passed Sam on his way out the door, ready to be accompanied by Gene and shunted off to Phyllis for release, he suddenly stopped and turned back.  “You know, you’re wearing long sleeves, too.”

Gene gave Sam a questioning look as he made to escort the boy. Sam just shook his head. “’s nothing,” he said, as he walked out of the cell and back to his desk, hoping the sudden rush of adrenaline hadn’t colored his face too badly. Not that anyone in that office paid him any mind anyway.

A few minutes later, Gene came barging back, shouting round the office, “Right! We’ve still got a robber on the loose, seein’ as that kid was more interested in cutting himself than snagging little ol’ ladies pearls!”

A sea of questioning looks were his answer—except for Sam, who was staring daggers. “I promised him we’d keep that confidential!” he hissed.

“Oh , like it bloody-well matters.”

“He did what, Guv?” Ray asked, not understanding.

“Cut himself. With his own knife.”

“Clumsy tosser, ain’t he!?” Ray chuckled at his own joke, several others chiming in.

“No, did it on purpose like. Nutter that one.” (Gene)

“Oi, likes cuttin’ himself? What’s bloody wrong with him? Shouldn’t we nab him off the streets before he turns it on someone else?” (Ray)

“That’s not how it works you imbeciles! He’s not a danger to himself, he’s not breaking any laws. And _you_ ” Sam looked at Gene, “promised to keep your mouth shut. The kid’s got enough to deal with as it is; doesn’t need Manchester’s ‘finest’ ridiculing him as well.”

“Oh, come off it, Tyler. None of us looking to run tell his mum, are we?”

“That’s not the point!” he yelled, mumbling, “It’s a damn good thing _I’m_ the one who tracked the alibi”  
 under his breath, thinking to himself, _see, this is why I can’t tell you things, bloody  ogre._

“Stop being so over-sensitive, you touchy-feely pansy. What’d that kid say to you, got you cryin’ over him and his poor life?!”

“You fancy ‘im boss?” Ray chimed in.

“You know what, you’re all just a bunch of Neanderthals.”

“Calm down, Dorothy.” Gene interjected.

“Fine. You don’t want poofs on the force, yeah? So why don’t you solve the robberies without your gay-boy DI this time?” Sam slammed down his file and turned to storm out. He made it as far as the hall before Gene caught him by his back collar. Sam turned and threw a punch right to Gene’s gut. Doubled over, Gene relinquished his hold on Sam, letting the slighter man stalk off after landing a blow himself.

He’d fully expected to see his pain-in-the-arse DI at the pub later that night. Sam hadn’t been there. Unbeknownst to Gene, he’d taken a walk around the city, trying to clear his head. But Johnny’s arms and his last comment were still swirling in his mind. The image of those lines across that light skin, reminding him of his own, of something he hadn’t done in so long… so long ago it seemed; when he’d finally started to ‘fit in’ (or at least ‘not fit in’ less). But today had made it clear once again just how much he was apart from the others; how there were things in his past they’d never understand, things about his present they’d never understand, and even just the simple fact of where (or when) the hell he came from that they’d never understand. And if they ever found out, that’d be it—sacked and alone instantaneously.

And he was sitting on his bed, with a shiny razor in his hand.

And there was a pounding on the door.

And Gene was asking for a beer.

~*~*~*~ Present ~*~*~*~

And Gene was grabbing his arm, twisting it down on the table so the palm was face-up, pulling back his shirt sleeve.

“Sonofabitch. What the hell, Sam?”

Sam tried in vain to jerk his arm free. “Lemme go!” Sam swung his other hand around and clocked Gene clean in the cheek. It was, truthfully, a nice right hook.

“Ooof!” Gene caught that hand and slammed it on the table as well. “If I roll up this one, it’ll be the same.” It was a statement, not a question.

“None of your business.”

Gene ignored him. “I’d wondered why you always wore long sleeves. But, not like anything you do is particularly normal. I mean, is there a reason for that blasted haircut?” Sam glared at him. “I’d been thinking about what that kid said to you, in the cell. Didn’t make sense. Then I thought…”

Something seemed to dawn on Sam. “That’s why you came round? To make sure I was alright? Because of this? Because you worked out what the kid…”

“Didn’t take a genius. Made sense once I thought it through. How the hell else would you know why the kid had a knife, why he had long sleeves. He clearly didn’t want to share that information—never mind how much of a good listener the ladies say you are.”

“The ladies what?”

“Never mind.” Gene huffed. “So, tell me, what was it with the alibi then? How did you know he was using the knife on himself?”

“I can’t tell you that, Gene. It’s confidential. He’s not our guy, so it’s not your business.”

“Bullocks. What else could there be to this? I’m standing here staring at your bloody arms.”

Sam didn’t budge.

“Why’d you do it?”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s private. It’s not your concern.”

“It bloody well is my concern!”

“And how’s that?! I’m fine, I’m perfectly able to do my job! And you shouldn’t even have been here to find this out!”

Unsurprising, that even this would turn into a shouting match; blows were sure to follow momentarily. “Well I’m damn well glad I was here! And you didn’t do your job! You walked out!”

“Because you were being an arsehole about the kid!”

“Fuck the kid! I don’t give a shite about the kid-- not when I’m standing here staring at my DI with dried blood up and down his forearms!”

“Your DI who’s not on the clock, so fuck off!”

“You expect me not to give a shite when someone I care about is _hurting themselves!?_ ”

“It’s none of your---“ Sam stopped, registering what Gene had said. “Someone you care about?” he asked in a much more subdued tone.

Gene seemed to realize what he had said. “I, uh, just meant… yeah, that’s what I meant.” Gene relinquished. He lifted one hand off Sam’s arms and took a long swig of beer.

“Johnny is gay.”

Gene almost spit out his beer. “Wha--?”

“Johnny’s gay. I could tell; I figured it out. His alibi had to be his boyfriend, that’s why he wouldn’t tell us where he was. I got him to give me a name, I ran him down. It checked out.”

Gene still stared at him, trying to fit the pieces together.

“I knew he was gay. I saw the long sleeves. I…”

Gene’s eyes widened. “You knew what he felt like,” he whispered. He pulled his hands away from Sam, letting him go, running the over his own face. “You’re—“

“Yeah.” Sam said, walking back, leaning over the table. “So, you gonna fire me?” Sam’s gaze flitted back to the razor he’d left near the bed. Gene caught the glance. “If you could maybe keep the punches down to two or three before sacking me, that’d be great. And maybe, you know, not tell the rest of the team till I collect my things. Or, if you could keep it quiet, then maybe I could get another job at least, somewhere else… south maybe.” Sam was now completely ignoring Gene and focused on the silver glint.

“No.”

Sam looked over. Defeated. “No to which part? The punches?” he steeled himself. “Ok, fine.”

“No, you moron, I was answering your first question. No I ain’t gonna fire you. But if you don’t stop staring at that razor, I’m gonna chuck it out your window.”

“You’re not firing me? Why not?”

“Because you’re the best damn DI in this city, probably most cities. And I already tol’ you… I care about you. Oh, bloody hell, now you’re turning me into a poof too, touchy-feely shite. Pain in my arse you are!” Gene fumed. “You’re mad, but you’re good. And I need you on my team. And I don’t want you leavin’. And that’s all I’m gonna say on the matter. Except o’ course, that if I find you doin’ this again,” he gestured to the razor and Sam’s again-covered arms, “I’ll kill you meself, five years or no.”

“You listened to my statistic?” Sam was surprised—both at Gene’s recollection and the fact that _that_ was the first piece of information he latched on to. “You want me? Does this mean you’ll do more things according to procedure like I---“

“Don’t push it, Dorothy,” Gene warned.

“Right.” Sam smiled, then turned somber. “You can’t just tell me to stop, Gene. It doesn’t work like that. I hadn’t done it in a long time, you can see from the marks, but… it’s a release, it’s a habit, it’s --- you wouldn’t understand. But you can’t control this; it’s my body, my life, my choices.”

“You’re right, I don’t understand. Just stop. If you went so long before, why don’t you just stop?”

Sam just shook his head. He couldn’t find an explanation that would help.

“What made tonight different? Why tonight?”

Sam looked up. He shrugged. “Johnny, seeing those marks again; kinda fixated on what I used to have. And then, realizing that I’d be sacked if you found out….well, everything you just found out. After I’d sorta, finally started to feel like I fit here… not great, I know, but wedged in, like a triangle peg in a circle hole.”

“Triangle peg?? Who _says_ that?” Gene mused, smiling a bit. “Look, you know I don’t do sentimentality. But you ain’t goin’ nowhere. I’ll keep my yap shut---  yes I _can,_ ” Gene retorted to Sam’s mock incredulity. “But I don’t like this, with the razor blade. And this isn’t the last of it. We ain’t done.” Sam nodded.

Gene coughed. Took another swig of beer. Sam fidgeted awkwardly.

“You’re gay.” It was a statement, like he was trying to digest the words.

Sam wasn’t sure if he was expecting—no, waiting—for him to deny it, to take it back. Instead he nodded, looking down again. “It’s not something you can help, you can’t—“

Sam found himself no longer able to speak, for the hands on either side of his face and the lips pressed against his own.


End file.
